


Anyone Who's Anyone in the ER at 3AM

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10115597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Bellamy doesn't see much humor in his situation: sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the ER at 3am, holding a frozen bag of peas up to his new black eye--but the woman sitting next to him with the tissues stuck up her nose definitely does.for the prompt: “we both got in separate bar fights downtown and now we’re waiting in the ER comparing stories” au





	

"Where'd you get that bag of frozen peas?" the woman sitting next to him asks, and Bellamy, startled out of his defeatist slouching, immediately sits up a little straighter. "It's great,” she adds. “Really pulls your look together." She waves her hand vaguely, taking in not only the peas but also his disheveled hair and scraped knuckles and the tear at the shoulder of his shirt.

Bellamy would think he was being insulted here but the woman has tissues stuck up both of her nostrils and blood dripping all over her shirt, and her own hair's a mess as it comes out of what must once have been a complicated series of twists and braids. So she's probably not judging him. And if she is, that is daringly hypocritical of her.

"Oh, this old thing?" he asks, taking the bag of peas very tentatively away from his nascent black eye. He gives it a once over. "Just something I had lying around."

The woman grins. "Still very chic."

Bellamy smiles too, even though, just a moment before, he hadn’t been feeling much of a sense of humor about his situation. It is, after all, three in the morning, he's sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair in an uncomfortably bright white waiting room in the ER, and the only reading material around is a six-month old issue of _People_. Not his usual fare. Though if he needs to have a conversation about last summer's hottest celebrity gossip any time in the near future, he's definitely set now.

Also his knuckles are throbbing and his eye hurts like hell.

But the woman sitting next to him is cute, underneath the blood stains and the silly walrus look, and she doesn't seem too put out at having to wait an hour just for someone to acknowledge their existence. When he looks at her he feels his mood beginning to improve.

"Actually," he says, "my friend lives above the bar where I got this," he points at the blue-purple splotch starting to darken under his eye, "and he loaned me this chic accessory before he shoved me into a taxi and sent me here."

"Anyone who's anyone at the ER should have a bag of peas," the woman says, and nods sagely. "He's a fast thinker. I had to get these tissues from the nurses' station—such a faux-pas."

"I won't tell anyone," Bellamy promises.

"Thank you." She stares at him a long moment, like she's taking him in, like she's trying to decide something about him or about herself, and then she sticks out her hand. "I'm Clarke. A fellow bar fight veteran."

"Bellamy," he answers, shaking her hand. He notes that she avoids touching the harsh red scrapes at his knuckles, which is nice of her. "So—who got on your bad side?"

Clarke pulls the tissues out of her nostrils, balls them up, and tosses them into the trash. They arc up perfectly and land squarely in the bin—impressive, at this distance. Her nose is still bleeding, though, so Bellamy scrambles in his pocket and offers her a new, slightly crumpled (but clean, he assures her) tissue in its place.

"Thanks," she mumbles. "You're prepared for everything, aren't you?"

"I get in fights a lot," he lies. "Or I used to be a Boy Scout. You decide."

"Scout, I think," Clarke answers. "Then again, so was I. And look at me now, getting into fist fights with strangers—I learned nothing. My scout leader would be ashamed." She pauses a moment, as she tears his offered tissue in two, then adds, "No, actually, I think she'd be fairly proud of me. This is a battle scar from a righteous fight against some asshole who wouldn't take no for an answer."

"'Never take shit from entitled assholes'—isn't that the Girl Scout motto?"

"It should be." 

She smiles and Bellamy curses whatever deity thought it would be a good idea to create a girl who looks not just adorable, but _beautiful_ , with his old torn up tissue up her nose.

He's about a millisecond away from being flustered, which is not a good feeling at all. So he's grateful when she asks, "So what about you? How'd you get that shiner?"

"Oh, the usual—"

"Guy who wouldn't take no for an answer?"

"Guy who let his inner homophobe come out after he had a few too many," Bellamy corrects. "He started talking shit about my friend—the one who owns the bar and gave me the peas—and I... took it upon myself to show him the door."

"Forcefully,” Clarke adds.

"Well, he wasn't getting the message."

"Apparently not."

Clarke is watching him now with a small, pleased smile on her face, which is pleasant for a few moments before it starts to make him wonder just what it means, what she's thinking.

"What bar is this, that your friend owns?" she asks, just before the pause enters awkwardly-long territory.

"It's called Arkadia, over on Mayfield," Bellamy answers, then clarifies, "It's not a gay bar specifically, my friend just happens to be gay."

"Oh, yeah, I figured, since the impolite homophobe showed up and all. Maybe I should check it out sometime. I like to give my patronage to business owners with good taste in peas."

As she’s talking, a nurse appears at the station behind them, and they both turn to see if, perhaps, one of them will be the next patient called. But no such luck.

Or maybe, Bellamy thinks, as Clarke pulls out her phone, excellent luck.

"Maybe I'll see you there sometime," she says. "At Arkadia."

"Maybe."

"And…maybe if we exchange numbers, we'll have a better chance of that happening?"

Bellamy pulls his phone out of his pocket too and agrees, "That is a distinct possibility."

It's a little awkward trying to hold his phone and type in her number one handed, while he keeps the frozen peas up against his cheekbone with the other, but knowing he'll be able to text her later, to ask how her nose is doing or if she knows a good way to get blood off boots, makes it well worth the effort indeed.


End file.
